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mighty-ant · 2 years

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Stone by Day, Part Four

Part Three

ao3

When Drake finally wraps his head around the gargoyle sharing a cell with him, and not the man-eating FOWL science experiment he was half expecting, the first thing he feels is relief. And not just for himself.

Gosalyn isn’t the only one anymore.

Of course, following on the heels of that relief is a swiftly sinking dread.

I’m going to be alone again.

A part of him had always known that this was how the adventure was going to end–her safe with her own people, him dragged back under the mantle of Darkwing, chewed up and spat back out by his city. Her wellbeing has superseded his happiness for a long time. Maybe since the first night Gosalyn turned to stone in his trembling arms, his suit stained with her blood when she got herself stabbed trying to protect him. Or since he mistook her for an attacker and twisted her arm on the orphanage roof, even.

There are boxes of sugary cereal in his kitchen that weren't there two months ago, colored pencils and crayons scattered across his coffee table. He’s gotten used to folding child-sized t-shirts on top of the dryer, and learned how to brush hair without tugging on the knots. Drake isn’t ready to say goodbye to it all. But he will. It’s what’s best. He’s no gargoyle, for all that he apparently has the sleeping schedule of one.

Speaking of gargoyles.

The orange behemoth in front of him isn’t Gosalyn’s grandfather, that much Drake knows for certain. For one, he’s orange and Gosalyn very helpfully described her grandfather as green-skinned, with gray sideburns and curling, goatlike horns. This guy is almost on the opposite side of the color wheel, and without any horns to speak of. He is big, though, easily seven feet, about as tall as Gizmoduck in his armor. Part of Drake dreads Gosalyn ever getting that tall when she grows up, if he even gets to see it. She’d never let him hear the end of it.

“So,” he starts, awkwardness tangling his tongue. Introductions have never been his forte. There’s a reason he appears in a cloud of smoke and vanishes again before anyone can force him to make small talk. “You…know me.”

A slightly alarming prospect, considering SHUSH has taken pains to ensure he remains more mystery than man in the tabloids. Gosalyn just happened upon him one night and decided to follow him around; it took Drake about a week to realize he had a second, child-sized (sorry, hatchling-sized) shadow. He desperately hopes the big guy hasn’t been tailing him too, or else he’s really lost his edge.

The gargoyle grins at him like it’s Christmas come early, nevermind that he’s been locked in this cell for gods knows how long. Drake should probably look into that.

“Course I know you!” The gargoyle chuckles, and it’s a little disarming how effortlessly it transforms his fearsome face into such a warm expression. “I’m a big fan.” He lumbers forward, and it’s through sheer force of will that Drake doesn’t retreat from someone who looks like he bench presses semis in his spare time. He reaches out with a single sharp talon and carefully cuts the cable tie still holding Drake’s wrists together. And here he was planning to dislocate a thumb to get himself free.

“I mean, uh.” The gargoyle takes a step back, looking abashed. “I’ve heard good things from-from Giz and the others.”

Drake is briefly distracted by relief; he lets out a breath, the tension in his body easing when the gargoyle surrenders the few feet of space between them and he stops feeling so cornered. Then he has the wherewithal to scoff. “You sure you got the right Darkwing? The Justice Dweebs and I aren’t exactly organizing playdates.”

The gargoyle huffs, wry amusement replacing his earlier uneasiness. “Never would’ve guessed.” He crouches, the same way Gosalyn does when she’s been standing around for a while. In her case, Drake suspects that it’s the posture that feels most natural to her, whether because of her age or her specific gargoyle body type. A body type that this gargoyle definitely doesn’t share. As big and barrel chested as he is, it’s almost like he’s trying to make himself look a little smaller.

Drake crosses his arms, eying the gargoyle as he leans against the wall. The wall of his prison cell. Right, time to get back to business.

He doesn’t know how long the gargoyle’s been here (days, maybe, if he really is Gizmoduck’s missing person), but it looks like FOWL has left him alone. Most wounds would’ve been healed by stone sleep, but this guy’s clothes aren’t even torn around where an injury would’ve been. And sure, Drake can’t imagine any Egghead or hired goon like Hammerhead wanting to go toe-to-toe against a seven-foot gargoyle, but there are ten hours of the day when the guy is solid stone. And in this place, a sitting duck in every sense of the word. Gruesome as the thought might be, if FOWL wanted the guy dead, he’d be dead and dust by now.

So the question remains: why have they left him alive? And for that matter, why is Drake?

“We’ve established you know who I am.” He pushes off from the wall to slowly circle the gargoyle. All this mystery is making him anxious. “But you’ve got me at a disadvantage.”

The big guy doesn’t move, other than to turn his head and keep Drake in sight. He looks unperturbed, maybe a little curious, but definitely doesn’t seem threatened by Drake’s patented ‘bad guy prowl’. And Drake suddenly wonders, if this guy does turn out to be a FOWL plant, could he beat him? If it came down to it and this gargoyle was all that stood between him and going back home to Gosalyn, keeping his word to sing her lullaby 2.0, would he be able to win?

He’s never had one, single person to fight for. Everything he’s done since burying Drake Allard has been for the city: the belligerent deli owners, the teens playing hockey in the streets, the single moms walking home in the dark. All of them important, but all of them nameless. Gosalyn chose her name, then she chose to give it to him, and with it, someone Drake can live for and not just a cause to die for.

The gargoyle offers Drake his hand, massive, orange and taloned. He could probably crush all 27 bones in his hand but Drake’s no coward, so he reaches out to take it. The gargoyle surprises him twice. First by wrapping his hand around Drake’s forearm instead, his talons easily swallowing the whole limb. Second by smiling up at Drake, boyish and bright, without a trace of guile.

It’s a nice smile, and that realization breaks something in Drake’s brain.

“Sorry about that,” the gargoyle says. “The name’s Launchpad. Launchpad McQuaid.”

Drake numbly allows his hand to be tugged up and down in a handshake. “I, uh, didn’t know gargoyles could have last names,” he replies inanely.

Launchpad laughs. “Then you must not know many gargoyles.”

Immediately, Drake’s limbs lock up in panic. It’s a dead giveaway but he can’t help it–not when he’s been torn from nightmare to nightmare of Gosalyn being discovered, being taken like her grandfather, ripped from his arms and strapped down to a dissection table like the ones he discovered only a few hours ago.

Launchpad’s brow ridge furrows in confusion over Drake’s reaction, as if thinking back to what he just said. When his prodigious jaw drops, Drake winces.

“Wait, you have met other gargoyles?” he exclaims. “How? Where? I know there’s a lotta weird stuff in St. Canard, but–”

“Shh!” Drake yanks back his hand to wave them both frantically at Launchpad. “Heron could’ve bugged the cell!”

He shakes his head with utmost confidence. “Nah, she stopped bothering when I kept finding ‘em.”

“Finding them?”

“Don’t miss much with ears like these.” Launchpad grins as he wiggles his ears, and yeah, okay, they’re practically big enough to use as sails. “I can hear the electricity buzzing in the wall.”

Still, Drake is too cautious to discuss Gosalyn openly, in a FOWL prison cell of all places, and Launchpad seems to pick up on his reticence. “It’s great that you’re finally in the loop, though. Gargoyles are kinda an open secret over in Duckburg. The Guild hadn’t been sure whether or not to tell you. Joke’s on them, I guess.”

“Yeah, joke’s on–hold up.” Drake backtracks, and righteous indignation floods him with the same intensity as his customary 11 p.m. triple shot espresso. “You’re Gizmoduck’s missing person,” he repeats, finally grasping its significance. “You’re telling me that Gizmodork knew about gargoyles before I did?”

“Maybe you would’ve known sooner if you didn’t play hooky at every meeting,” Launchpad teases. Drake surprises himself by flushing a little under his mask; with his coloring and the low lighting, he doubts it’s obvious. But how embarrassing.

To make matters worse, Launchpad isn’t wrong either. If Drake had just sucked up his pride, for once, and attended the meetings like Gizmoduck practically begged him to every month (and SHUSH technically required of him) maybe he wouldn’t have been so blindsided by Gosalyn’s appearance in his life. He would’ve known about stone sleep, instead of having his heart stop when Gosalyn first turned cold and heavy in his arms after staining the front of his suit with her blood. She might’ve trusted him weeks ago and he would’ve known about her grandfather that much sooner, could’ve had the full force of the Justice Guild at his back when they raided the Bulwark Building and rescued the old gargoyle from whatever tortures Bulba and FOWL’s scientists were planning–were possible even enacting as they speak.

If he’d listened to something other than his own ego, he certainly wouldn’t be sitting uselessly in a locked cell with a gargoyle who Gosalyn should’ve met ages ago, if only to prove that she isn’t as alone as she fears.

Drake paces.

He walks away from Launchpad–one, two, five, seven, ten steps one way, ten steps back, there are no windows and only one door, and if he’s getting claustrophobic he can’t imagine how the gargoyle feels. “How long have you been here?” he demands. “What’s the guard rotation?”

Time is a precious commodity, and stuck at a standstill, Drake can feel it rushing past him, drowning him in sand like a massive hourglass. He doesn’t have his watch, synced up Gosalyn’s (he already knows he’ll be too late to sing her lullaby 2.0 tonight), his gear, or even his damn hat. Everything useful was stripped from him and now he’s just a guy in a domino mask with some decent martial arts training that doesn’t amount to anything when compared to a man in indestructible armor, a literal Greek god, or the seven-foot gargoyle in front of him. Drake is mortal, painfully human, and he’s never felt his weaknesses so keenly.

Launchpad startles, straightening under Drake’s brusque tone.

“Uh, it’s been three,” he grimaces, “sorry, four days. And I haven’t seen any guard other than Hammerhead.”

Drake paces some more, scanning the walls, floor, and ceiling as he goes. There are two circular air vents, too small for anything bigger than his arm to fit through. No loose paneling either–the walls look and feel like solid steel.

“What have you tried?” he shoots over his shoulder.

When Launchpad takes a few seconds too long to answer, Drake turns around. “To escape,” he reiterates. “What have you tried to escape?”

“Here’s the thing.” Launchpad won’t meet his eyes. He isn’t even looking at Drake, instead zeroed in on where he’s tapping his first talons together. “I haven’t…tried to escape.”

Drake, very mature he thinks, resists the urge to shake Launchpad. It would probably be just as successful as rocking a brick wall from side to side. He doesn’t, however, do anything to lower his voice, and it cracks through the air like a whip.

“What–why not!”

Launchpad raises his hands defensively. “Hey, I know how that sounds! But-but I can’t try anything. They’re holding another gargoyle here, I’m sure of it, and I can’t risk Bulba or FOWL ki…hurting them.”

“That’s…insane.” Drake scrubs both hands over his face and through his hair, throwing it into disarray. On a normal night he’d cared about that–his image is half of his advantage against the scum he faces, arriving in a cloud of smoke, all silent menace, cool and collected while they panic and swear–but right now he couldn’t care less. He doesn’t care if Launchpad sees him unraveling, more man than mystery now, because everything that could go wrong tonight has done exactly that. Except that he’s not dead. Yet.

“You do know how insane that sounds, right?” Drake really needs to hammer that point home. Of all the gargoyles in the world to get stuck with, however few there are, he had to get stuck with the one who refuses to help him see his dau–his charge again. Not that he knows that’s what he’s doing by making himself a martyr, but still. “Do you have any idea if the gargoyle is even here? And what’s stopping Bulba from just killing them whenever he wants? Or you?” The next thought that arises is chilling, but he mentally apologizes to Gosalyn and presses on. “Do you even know if they’re still alive?”

Launchpad smiles weakly. For such a big guy, he’s doing little to defend himself from Drake’s panic-driven onslaught. “I think that they are. I hope they are. But don’t worry about me, Darkwing. I’m, uh, I know Scrooge McDuff, so FOWL knows better than to mess with me.”

(In the back of Drake’s mind, the namedrop of the richest man in the world by a gargoyle strikes a familiar note. After all, Gosalyn told him that twenty years ago, an old, rich human offered her clan sanctuary in Duckburg. Could McDuff have been that human?)

In any event, Drake might actually yank his hair out. Gosalyn, if he ever sees her again, will call him Baldy for the rest of his life and he’ll gladly take it if it means he’ll get to hear her voice. “I’m not worried about you!” he sputters. “I’m worried about–”

Should he just tell Launchpad he has a kid waiting for him at home–a gargoyle kid–in the hopes that he’ll take Drake’s insistence that they get the hell outta dodge seriously? Is it worth the risk of FOWL listening in, despite the assurance of Launchpad’s supposed super-hearing that they aren’t being monitored? Is he willing to put Gosalyn’s safety into question ever again, no matter how low the chances are?

He isn’t. Of course, he isn’t.

Turning away from him, Drake takes a breath. “Listen, Launchpad, I don’t have the benefit of rich friends. I need to get out of here, now. Can’t you, I don’t know, put those muscles to good use and knock down this door or something?”

Behind him, Launchpad’s already mellow voice is low and apologetic. “I’m sorry, Darkwing. I don’t think I’m gonna have time to do that.”

Oh for the love of Mike.

“What do you mean you don’t have–”

A familiar sound stops him dead in his tracks. It’s the quiet crackling of stone that he’s grown used to hearing following a clumsy lullaby, old cases-turned bedtime stories he’s censored for young ears, or sleepy tales of an expansive jungle canopy and a weeks-long journey. Only one time has the sound accompanied painful, clawing dread: when Gosalyn was apologetic and bleeding in his arms, before she went cold and terrifyingly still. But this is a close second.

Drake already knows what he’ll find when he turns around. He does it anyway.

Launchpad’s regretful expression has followed him into stone sleep, and his sightless eyes are locked onto where Drake had been standing last.

He’s too late. It’s the next day.

Drake is allowed a few hours of sleep, but with the big, scary gargoyle out of the way, he isn’t surprised when Hammerhead and a half-dozen Eggheads flood the cell and drag him away.

He hadn’t pegged Bulba as the sort to get his hands dirty.

White collar criminals tend to earn their title for a reason. They keep well out of the way of the action while the poor mooks they hire have to reach into the blood and mud to fight and claw and scrape to do their dirty work, to survive.

And anyway, it’s the stooges who Drake usually goes after. He’s one guy–he can’t dismantle an entire criminal empire, not on his own at least. When he’s taken out a couple dozen lower level punks, the ones hitting up stores for protection money and threatening his citizens, and gets enough dirt on their bosses, he’ll pass it all over to SHUSH with their infinite reserve of agents to do the official takedown.

At most, the few crooked CEOs Drake has faced will have a halfcocked pistol tucked in a desk drawer that they don’t know how to use, and the kingpins who inherited their empires never had to stab a buddy in the back (sometimes literally) to stake their claim at the top of the heap. They have other people to do the fighting and the torturing for them because evil as they are, they lack the proper experience to get the job done. Might even think themselves above it, until they find themselves helpless at the business end of his fist.

Point being, Drake doesn’t expect Bulba to take charge of his beating, or to do it so expertly.

The Eggheads bound his hands again and hung him from a hook in the middle of an adjacent cell, all very by the book, interrogation-wise. He can brush the floor with the toes of his boots so he doesn’t have to worry about his arms getting wrenched out of their sockets just from the weight of him hanging there, which was nice of them, if unintentional. Bulba’s cells might be gargoyle-proof, but they lack the state-of-art shackles and torture devices that Buzzard’s Eggheads are probably used to.

Hammerhead worked him over first. No questions, just fists and headbutting, still sore about Drake getting him arrested the last five times. Not that Drake made it easy for him, kicking Hammerhead in the gut when he was almost out of reach and kneeing him in the crotch when he was close enough. Hammerhead ended up more out of breath than Drake, his nose swollen up like a grapefruit from Drake’s kick to the face back in the elevator, greasy hair hanging in his eyes and fancy gangster tie all undone.

Then Bulba, lurking at the back during his “interrogation,” steps forward.

Sometimes it’s hard to tell what you’re gonna get when it comes to these scientist types. There’s the cold and calculating sort like SHUSH’s Sara Bellum, who doesn’t care who you are or what you’ve done as long as you get out of her way. Then there are the sickos, the real mad scientist types, who hurt people for the twisted joy of it. Black Heron is the latter, obsessed with human experimentation, torture, and weapons of mass destruction, to name a few of her hobbies. Seeing her out of her snake pit isn't a good sign on a normal day, and seeing her shacked up with Bulba and the millions at his disposal is a terrible sign.

Back in that shadowed room, when Drake woke to find himself tied to a chair, Bulba had struck him as the Bellum sort of scientist, albeit with a better sense of humor. But then Bulba hands his exquisitely tailored suit jacket to a hobbling Hammerhead and rolls up his sleeves with a savage sort of grin, and Drake feels a prickle of uncertainty in the back of his mind.

They hadn’t bothered with removing his suit armor–just their luck, since they’d have a devil of a time trying to pry him out of it anyway–but even through three layers of kevlar micromesh, Bulba nearly knocks the breath of his lungs with one punch. His fists rain down on Drake in a punishing onslaught, a raging storm of unbridled power with no compunction about unleashing it on another. The elegant man who exchanged cheesy supervillain banter with Drake is gone, a mask that Bulba has allowed to slip, revealing someone wild in his place, artless in his recklessness, like a child with a new toy that he can’t wait to break.

Bulba’s punches remind Drake of the beatings he received at the hands of his own schoolyard bullies–all power, no skill. It’s almost bewildering in its familiarity. As Drake’s lip splits and blood fills his mouth, he’s struck with the half-crazed urge to ask, Do you remember beating up a Drake Allard behind the equipment shed in eighth grade? Kinda nebbish, glasses, liked to wear Dolly Parton shirts?

But what Bulba lacks in training he makes up for through his sheer size, the breadth of his fists, the coiled power of his muscles. He’s the sort of man who’s come out on top of every fight he’s ever been in because he’s the size of a mountain, and abuses the hell out of that fact.

Bulba has a pinkie ring on one finger; Drake can tell by the way it rips a hole in his eyebrow. Blood pours into his left eye, but that doesn’t matter so much when it’s already swelling with the beginnings of a black eye. Blows to his torso, cushioned by his armor, mean bruised ribs instead of broken. He sees the fist aiming for his jaw and he moves with it lest he lose any teeth. But he needn’t have worried about the last one.

Just like Drake’s schoolyard bullies, Bulba tires quickly. Untrained as he is, he’s putting 100% of his energy behind every punch, burning himself out instead of pacing himself. It’s a wasteful, childish technique that only works when he wants to pummel his victims into submission through quick, brutal, overwhelming force. It only works on people who aren't used to receiving beatings on the daily. When they haven’t trained themselves to overcome any measure of pain and get back up. Every. Single. Time.

Bulba backs off, huffing and puffing like he just sprinted up the last twenty flours of Bulwark Tower. He grins as he wipes sweat off his brow. “So quiet, Darkwing. Not in the mood for witty repartee?”

Drake gathers a mouthful of blood and spits, aiming for the mirrored surface of Bulba’s custom leather A. Testoni dress shoes. Bullseye. “What, you want color commentary? Somebody sounds insecure.” He grins, teeth almost definitely tinged pink with blood.

Hammerhead takes a little step away from him. That feels pretty good.

Bulba huffs a laugh, shaking out his fist. His bloodlust has receded, once more tucked neatly behind the mask of an unruffled businessman. He examines Drake with a strange, eager gleam in his dark eyes, as a scientist might a new laboratory specimen. It makes Drake’s skin crawl.

“I’d heard you could take a beating,” Bulba observes, still out of breath. “But I’m impressed. You don’t stay down, do you?”

Drake sneers. “Not ‘til I’m in the ground.”

Bulba hums thoughtfully. At a gesture, Hammerhead steps forward to help him back into his suit jacket, though Bulba adjusts his tie himself.

“You’re small-time, Darkwing. You know that don’t you? An ant among giants.” He begins to circle Drake as he tugs on his sleeves, straightening his ruby cufflinks. Drake wishes he were free, if only so he could stuff those cufflinks down his throat. “Take that Hercules fellow. Everyone thinks it’s a gimmick, that he’s just another superpowered freak. Or an alien like that imbecilic Moonlander. But he’s the real thing. A Greek god, in our own backyard. Life really is stranger than fiction, and so few people actually know it.”

“So you figured out the obvious. What do you want, a gold star?” Drake grunts, wiggling his thumb as subtly as he can. He wonders how long it would take him to dislocate the bone from this angle and slip his hand out before anyone noticed.

Bulba stops in front of him, head tilted to the side, and Drake stills.

“I want to know what you get out of this, Darkwing. This isn’t your place, here, in the light. The shadows are your hunting ground; corrupt cops and court jesters are your prey. All this magic and mayhem isn’t your usual scene. But now, despite what your instincts must be screaming at you, you’ve thrust yourself under the biggest spotlight in all of St. Canard,” Bulba grabs hold of the chain keeping Drake suspended from the ceiling, dragging him in close, until he can count the beads of sweat dotting Bulba's bald head. “And you still haven’t told me how you knew about the gargoyles.”

And here Drake had been hoping that Bulba’s apparent insanity overrode his intelligence.

“What, you want my whole life story while you’re at it?” Drake grunts, unable to completely hide his discomfort. Bulba’s right about one thing–he isn’t used to this amount of attention, especially from the crazies he usually fights. It’s usually more along the lines of a frantic punchup in a lightbulb factory or abandoned toy warehouse than getting tenderized like a slab of meat followed by one of the weirdest therapy sessions he’s ever had.

Bulba scoffs, releasing Drake’s chain. He takes a step back, eying Drake up and down, pointedly unimpressed.

“I don’t need it. I figured you out after our first conversation.”

“Oh yeah?” Drake can’t help but goad him. He’s lost every defense but his attitude, and he’s not about to let that last shield fall in front of the likes of Bulba and Hammerhead Hannigan, nevermind how cold dread zings through his gut at the bored certainty in Bulba’s voice. Whatever game he’s playing, it’s keeping Drake away from Gosalyn, Launchpad in the next cell, and wherever they’re holding Gosalyn’s grandfather in this labyrinthine tower.

“You act and speak before thinking–clearly you’re used to working alone,” Bulba starts. “And more than that, you’ve always been alone. An only child, if I had to guess, starved for the attention of his parents and his peers, when it wasn’t negative, of course.” He leans in, insufferably smug, resident Darkwing historian that he apparently is. “Definitely bullied. You’re defensive enough for it. And your need to prove yourself the strongest, scariest superhero around also leads me to believe you were weighed down by the expectations of a parent. Most likely the father. Isn’t it always?”

Drake tries, and fails, to headbutt Bulba when the slimeball leans back with an insufferable smirk just in time to avoid the blow. “Does the big scary scientist have daddy issues?” Drake jeers.

“Ah, childish insults,” Bulba enthuses. “The poor man’s wit. But not in your case, eh, Darkwing? Your reputation speaks for itself. You, my friend, are known for your silence as you throw yourself into all manner of life threatening danger. Because it’s not your life you fear for, is it? That’s been forfeit since you first put on that ridiculous mask and cape. So what changed? Whose life do you fear for? You’ve always been a protector, but perhaps that title has grown more literal. Closer to home.”

Drake swallows reflexively. He doesn’t like thinking about his life before Gosalyn anymore–the great, yawning abyss that was his lonely routine, the filth he so willingly waded into. She’d given him something to fight for beyond the anger that had long since burnt through him, leaving the ashes of disillusionment behind. He’d been living a shadow of a life, and like Bulba so astutely pointed out, was unprepared to be dragged back into the light.

Before, he’d been angry. Then, he felt nothing. Now, he’s afraid, afraid for her, more afraid than he’s ever been, and he doesn’t know how to hide it.

“Hm. A recent change, perhaps,” Bulba observes, apparently on a roll now. “And one that would have brought you here, to my building, to seek something out. Or rather, someone. A gargoyle,” he says with such terrible certainty that Drake’s heart stutters. “The one that my aged specimen was mumbling about.” Bulba grins with a mouth full of gleaming, perfect teeth. “You, Darkwing, have a gargoyle hatchling in your care.”

Terror unlike any he’s known since he was a child, helpless and weak, blinds and deafens Drake for several seconds. Rationality takes a moment to right itself.

He doesn’t know about the Tower, he reminds himself over the cacophony of blood roaring through his ears. The sun’s up. Gosalyn’s safe as long as she doesn’t leave.

Even in the midst of his panic, Drake’s detective brain latches onto Bulba’s use of past tense. His stomach drops even as fury wrenches through his heart like a hot iron brand.

“Was?” he demands, lunging forward on his chain. “What’ve you done to him? Where are you keeping him?”

Bulba chuckles. “Your loyalty is commendable, Darkwing. Especially for a creature you’ve never met. You didn’t meet him, did you?” he clarifies, sounding curious.

“Never had the pleasure,” Drake growls.

“Well, he had a singular mind, let me tell you,” Bulba enthuses with gleeful, off putting passion. “I’ve never witnessed such genius from an untrained source. Everything he knew about physics, transdimensional reality–it was all just theory! He’d only ever read about it in books, but he was able to put that knowledge to use with remarkable ease. I’m ashamed to admit, without his help, the device wouldn’t be nearly as far along as it is.”

Drake has officially lost the thread of the conversation. “Wha–device?” he sputters, confusion and latent anger simmering in a nauseating stew. The continued use of past tense has dread tightening in his gut like a vice.

But Bulba rambles on as if Drake hadn’t spoken. “Did you know, we weren’t even looking for gargoyles! Far from it. FOWL lent me a few teams of Eggheads to patrol for your little playmates, and to throw the Justice Guild off the scent before they could interfere with my plans. But when they reported that they’d encountered a live specimen, well, I wasn’t about to look a gift gargoyle in the mouth, now was I? As plentiful as the creatures are in Duckburg, they’re too well-protected by their proximity to McDuff. And by the time they migrate to his sanctuary upstate? Forget about it!”

Drake jerks forward on his chain, as ineffectual as a fish dangling from a hook, but he’s too angry, too scared, too damn baffled to care. “What the hell are you talking about? What plans? What did you do to the gargoyle, Bulba?”

Bulba blinks, like he’d forgotten Drake was even in the room. “Wow,” he says. “You really don’t belong up here.” He holds his hand open behind him, beckoning to Hammerhead with a wiggle of his fingers. Drake watches with sharp trepidation as Hammerhead slips a slim, black case out of his inner jacket pocket and presses it into Bulba’s waiting palm. He opens it to reveal a single syringe filled with clear liquid. “You should’ve stayed small-time, Darkwing. You weren’t ready for the spotlight.” Bulba clicks his tongue, disappointed, as he removes the syringe and taps on the needle.

Panic licks up Drake’s throat like hot fire but he grits his teeth and strengthens his glare. “Oh yeah? Then what was the point of all this if you were just gonna kill me?”

I’m sorry, Gos. I'm sorry I failed you.

“Kill you?” Bulba repeats with a surprised laugh. “No, no, Darkwing, you misunderstand. We’ve got to get you ready for your big scene. Nothing less than a grand finale for our hero.”

At his nod, Hammerhead darts forward and grabs a handful of Drake’s hair, jerking his head roughly to the side. With his neck exposed, Bulba jabs him with the syringe, emptying its contents in one quick go.

As Drake’s vision swims and the blackness of oblivion drags him under, he hears Bulba croon, “Just wait till you meet your co-star.”

#ant writes #IM FINALLY BACK #with more gargoyles!#duckgoyles au #gargoyles au #gargolyes #darkwing duck #drake mallard #launchpad mcquack #taurus bulba #ducktales 2017 #stone by day

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